Chronicles of the Dragonborn
by DarthKingdom
Summary: A series of one-shots as we follow the Dragonborn throughout his adventures in Skyrim. Learn more about the Dragonborn and his companions as they journey toward the ultimate goal: Alduin's defeat.


_Hi! So, this is my first attempt at an Elder Scrolls fic. Skyrim was the game that first introduced me to the series, and I'm probably not the only one._

_I thought it would be fun to put together a few one-shots on the adventures of my version of the Dragonborn, starting at the very beginning, and keep adding more until I get bored! I'll write about some of my favorite quests, and add a few original adventures of my own. So, I hope that you enjoy them! Let's get started._

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Elder Scrolls, Bethesda, etc._

_!_

Prologue: The Adventure Begins

Therun Axion was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible as he neared the border of Skyrim and Cyrodiil.

At first glance, there was very little to look at. He was an Imperial, and a little over average height. He had long, red-brown chin-length hair, and a goatee of a slightly lighter shade. His hazel eyes darted rapidly back and forth despite his attempts to avoid suspicion.

He was garbed simply in a long hooded brown cloak and a few other layers, with a dagger tucked into his boot just in case of trouble. All that he had to his name was in the satchel he had slung over his shoulder.

He was passing through a small village set into the southern side of a mountain. Once he reached the other side of the mountain range, he would be safely within Skyrim, and hopefully away from anybody who might recognize him.

!

Therun's story was a complicated one. He was a native of Cyrodiil, and until quite recently had resided in the Imperial City itself. He and his elder brother Altus had been the children of an Imperial father and a Nord mother.

The aforementioned brother had had –like many of the members of his race- an aptitude for diplomacy. This trait had earned him a seat in the Elder Council as one of its youngest members in decades.

But his brother had also been notoriously opinionated. The stories of the so-called 'Stormcloak' rebellion in his mother's homeland had struck a chord within him. He had never been satisfied with the conditions of the White-Gold Concordat, banning the worship of Talos in the Empire. He could hardly blame those natives of the province for being upset.

Altus had made his opinion on the subject very clear, and it had cost him his life.

Therun had been visiting the house of his brother and his wife Kynela in the Imperial City when things had begun to unravel. The conversation around the dinner table had been brisk and light-hearted, when the sound of the front door slamming open reached their ears.

The three of them had rushed to the entrance, when a trio of bronze-armored figures stormed in, brandishing gleaming swords. In the candlelight, Therun had caught a glimpse of their faces and saw at once that they were Altmer; undoubtedly agents of the Thalmor.

The elves fell upon them without a word. The leader lashed out, burrying his sword up to the hilt in Altmus's chest. No warning, no threat, just instant death.

As his dear brother's lifeblood poured onto the ground, Therun lunged at his killer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his sister-in-law screaming and running for her life back into the dining room, the other Altmer hot on her tail.

He knocked the elf to the ground, and pulled the heavy glass sword from his grasp with barely enough time to turn and face the third elf. With the skill afforded him by training in the Imperial legion reserves, he parried the attacker's heavy-handed blow, and slashed the borrowed blade through his throat.

Therun sensed the other elf pushing himself up and was quick to react. No sooner was he back on his feet than he found a blade in his chest. As he wrenched the blade free, he heard a high scream and a _thud_ from farther in the house.

He sprinted into Altmus's study to find his Kynela already dead on the floor, her throat slashed open. Judging by the state of the room –chairs and ornaments had all been toppled over, and the Altmer's sword was lodged into the back wall- she hadn't gone down quietly.

The elf was just standing up, a wet dagger clutched in one hand. He was clutching the side of his head, where there was now a large, purple bruise. He turned when he heard Therun enter the room.

He soon found a marble sculpture of Mara -which had been sitting on the nearest table- being shattered over his head. The elf crumpled to the ground, and Therun snarled, stabbing the Thalmor through the back in his anger.

He stood over the elf's body, his chest heaving and his fists clenched tight. It took him several moments to calm down and steady his breathing. Anger gave way to grief, and he knelt down next to his brother's wife, closing her eyes.

Therun moved over to the assailant's body, and opened up the blood-stained satchel that was cinched around his waist. He searched around inside, and quickly found what he was looking for.

Inside was a note scrawled on a piece of parchment, containing the Thalmor's mission orders. It was written bluntly, with no trace of emotion buried in the words.

"_Altus is a potential risk to the stability of the Aldmeri Dominion. You are to attack his residence. Kill all inside, and then set fire to the manor to ensure that it appears to be an accident."_

Therun crumpled the note, his rage rising to the surface even stronger than before. But he quickly repressed it. He had to make a plan and take action as quickly as he could.

He doubted very much that these three flunkies were the only ones that had been sent by the Thalmor. Scouts were probably watching the house for any signs that the mission hadn't gone according to plan. If Therun stepped outside, he could fully expect an arrow in the back of the head.

And if he managed to sneak out, with such a strong Thalmor presence in the city, he wouldn't be able to get within ten feet of the guard's barracks without an elf spotting him.

He sighed. He had a solution in mind, but it wasn't one that he relished.

!

Therun had placed his brother and his wife in their bed and given a short prayer to Arkay. Then with all due haste, he had gathered everything useful he could find, along with a handful of keepsakes, which were now in his satchel. He lamented that he couldn't take the sword with him, but it might have drawn unwanted attention.

He had then set fire to every room in the house, and ducked out of the nearest window while the blaze was still low.

Hood drawn, he had crept through the streets as quickly and quietly as he could, with only one destination in mind; the homeland of his mother.

Skyrim.

That had been about three days ago, and now the sun was beginning to set. Having just passed through the last settlement, he was deep into the Ferall Mountains now. He was about to cross the border.

The frost crunched loudly beneath his feet, and the wind at this height was chilling him to the bone. He had expected his half-Nord blood to give him more resistance to the cold, but apparently he still needed to acclimatize to it.

Trekking through the mountains, Therun reflected that his plan was extremely vague. The only goal in sight was to get to civilization somewhere in Skyrim where he could lay low for a while. Once the Thalmor believed that he was well and truly dead, he could come back to Cyrodiil and report their horrendous actions to the right people.

After that, he confessed that he didn't know what would happen. Would they try to silence him again? Would it even make any difference? He didn't know. But something in him told him that he had to take action of some kind.

Night was falling quickly, turning the sky a pale lilac color. Pinpricks of starlight were appearing in the sky, and the first of the two moons was peeking out from over the horizon.

Therun's breath caught in his throat the moment he got his first look at Skyrim. The landscape of Tamriel's northernmost province stretched out before him for as far as the eye could see.

Thick forests, vast, stretching plains, roaring rivers, and mountains all clamored for his attention as he took in the view. He couldn't help but divert his attention to the shape of the largest mountain in the world, the Throat of the World, clearly visible even from such a great distance.

"Magnificent." Therun breathed after a few awestruck moments.

Gradually, he followed the dirt trail down the steep mountainside. He consulted the map of the province he had found in his brother's files. If he was correct about his current location, than the nearest settlement to him was Falkreath. He needed to turn slightly west.

He reached the base of the mountains (almost losing his footing twice on the way down) just as the sun fully set upon Skyrim. There was a low-lying fog amongst the healthy pine trees that grew so well in Falkreath hold, and it took Therun several minutes to find a trail.

With the fog so thick, and only the moonlight to guide his steps, Therun could only see the vaguest of shapes as he proceeded west. Tucking his map back into his cloak, he knelt down, and drew a small torch from his satchel.

He flourished his free right hand, producing a few small flames which immediately took to the head of the torch. The flickering orange flames provided much needed illumination to the surrounding area. He could finally see just where his feet were taking him.

Therun congratulated himself on his foresight. He had recognized the practical applications of magic and in his spare time had taken to experimenting with the tomes alongside honing some basic swordsmanship skills.

It paid to prepare for these kinds of situations.

With his torch held aloft, Therun continued along his path. He was alone, save for the occasional woodland creature in the woods on either side of him. He reflected that Skyrim was a hunter's paradise, with an abundant deer, elk, and fox population.

Of course, that meant that there was no shortage of dangerous creatures like wolves, bears, and even trolls. He kept his guard up.

He had been walking for at least an hour before he encountered any sign of civilization. It came in the form of a street sign posted at a fork in the road. Therun held his torch up to read it clearly. The three signs pointed in different directions down the road.

The one pointing back the way he had come was marked 'Whiterun.' The one going straight forward was marked 'Falkreath.' The one on the path jutting off from his current one was marked 'Helgen.'

Therun stalled for a moment. The small numbers under the names seemed to mean that Helgen was closer than Falkreath. But then again, Falkreath was the hold capitol, and would likely offer more opportunity for him. Where to go?

As he was trying to make up his mind, he heard a noise from far off, and turned. As it grew louder, he realized that it was the sound of voices.

He soon picked up more noises, like the steady trot of horses and the turning of wagon wheels. And shortly thereafter, he saw the glow of flames peeking through the trees.

Finally, they rounded a bend, and Therun saw two large, roofless wooden carriages moving toward him. They were pulled by pairs of strong, Nordic horses with muscular frames and lustrous coats. A little over a dozen men and women were walking alongside the carriages, or riding in them.

Most of them were wearing similar clothing, and all were armed. They were garbed in light armor that looked like fur or leather woven over chainmail, painted blue. They were also wearing gloves and boots of the same fur material. They wore thick steel helmets that covered almost all of their heads, except for their eyes. Their wood and iron shields were emblazoned with the image of a bear's head.

The only one who didn't seem to be wearing this same armor was sitting in the passenger's seat of the front carriage. He was a tall, muscular man with dark brown hair and a hardy beard and moustache. He was garbed in a heavy, black and brown fur cloak and a metal breastplate beneath it. His deep blue eyes were dark.

Therun eyed them carefully as they approached. They certainly weren't Imperials. But the man riding toward him certainly was a person of importance to be surrounded by such an entourage.

The guards noticed him, and -as a clear warning sign to keep his distance- brought their hands to their weapons. Therun made no sudden movements, and walked slowly forward, deciding to simply walk past the small convoy and continue on his way to Falkreath.

But the moment he and the convoy were level with each other, all hell broke loose.

There was a cry of "NOW!" from the tree line, and arrows flew into their midst.

The next few seconds were a frantic blur to Therun. At least three of the armed guards and one of the horses fell to the ground, their bodies riddled with steel-tipped arrows.

The driver of the front carriage immediately grabbed his important-looking companion, and pushed him down into the back of the transport and out of the line of fire. With one of the horses dead, the carriage wasn't going anywhere.

After the initial barrage, the guards were quick to pull themselves together, and raised their shields to catch the next volley of arrows, which was much less effective than the first had been.

With a loud war cry, the assailants burst from the trees. Imperial soldiers rushed onto the path with weapons bared. They were all garbed in the clanking steel plates and studded scarlet leather of the Legion. Their numbers at least doubled those of their targets.

Therun saw this all from his cover behind one of the carriages –having thrown himself to the ground upon hearing the signal to attack. He was no coward, but he had to consider his next move very carefully, though his mind was racing. The last thing he had expected upon entering Skyrim was to get caught in the middle of a Stormcloak/Imperial skirmish.

The severed head of an Imperial soldier bounced past him, interrupting his thoughts. A pair of boots filled his vision, and he looked up, drawing his dagger reflexively.

But the owner of the boots wasn't paying any attention to him. It was the leader of the convoy in the heavy fur. He had drawn a steel war axe, and was gripping it tightly in one hand. He wore an expression of angered determination as he stared down the Imperials.

"_Fus_!"

He shouted in a tongue that Therun didn't recognize, and the effects were very unexpected. A wave of translucent blue energy rushed from his mouth. The five Imperials that had quickly turned their attention upon him stumbled backwards as the wave struck them, and two of them fell to the ground.

The Stormcloak leader ran at them brandishing his axe. He struck two of the Imperials down before they could recover. When a third sliced downward at his head, he easily blocked the blow with his reinforced axe handle, and slammed his large fist into the side of his head, knocking the soldier unconscious.

While Therun watched with fascinated awe, a shadow fell over him. He turned quickly around, and saw an Imperial captain standing over him, sword raised for the killing blow.

He reacted instinctively, and threw himself forward at the captain just as he had done with the Thalmor back in his brother's house. This was unexpected, and the officer fell to the ground with Therun on top of him. Before he could even think about what he was doing, Therun had stabbed his dagger into the man's throat, ending his life instantly.

There was a loud roaring sound, and all eyes turned to the rear carriage. Some enthusiastic spell caster had managed to set it on fire, and the blaze now gave the battlefield a hellish glow.

Before Therun could even form another thought, a blinding pain erupted in the back of his skull, and he collapsed forward, his last sight before things went black being the sight of a pair of Imperial boots.

!

Therun's thoughts were still cloudy when he came to. His head was throbbing painfully, and it took him a few moments to remember the hectic events that had brought him here.

He was first aware that he was moving. He was sitting on a rought wooden surface, which was rocking slightly. Opening his eyes, he realized that he was sitting in a carriage with three other people. It was morning, and there were thick grey clouds overhead. There was a slight drizzle.

He looked around and realized that this carriage was actually one of three trudging along the narrow dirt road under Imperial escort. All of them were filled with men and women wearing Stormcloak uniforms, their weapons and helmets having been taken from them.

Therun tried to search for his own possessions before realizing that his hands were bound by a thick rope before him. His hood had also been ripped off. He scowled silently.

"Ah, you're finally awake."

He looked back up, at the seat across from his. He dimly recognized the man sitting across from him as the driver who had shoved the Stormcloak leader out of the way when the ambush had begun. He was tall Nord, and heavily muscled with long, dark blonde hair and a beard. He was about his age, and had bright blue eyes and a kind –if slightly rough- face.

"Name's Ralof. Of Riverwood."

"Therun Axion." He said, groggily.

"Imperial, eh?" He said, sounding slightly suspicious.

"I was born in Cyrodiil, yes." He explained, his senses slowly coming back to him. "But my mother was Nordic."

This seemed to soften him slightly, and he nodded as though in approval. "Good to meet you. I'm guessing you were trying to cross the border, eh?"

"Not exactly. I was just trying to get to Falkreath."

Curiously, Ralof chuckled at this. At Therun's confused look, he apologized. "Sorry. But the Imperials seemed to have thought otherwise. They thought you were there to meet with us."

Therun groaned, cursing his bad luck. If he had made up his mind at the crossroads a bit sooner, then he could have avoided all of this.

"Wrong place, wrong time my friend." Ralof said sympathetically. "Just like us and that thief over there. Lokir, was it?"

He nodded to his left, and Therun turned his gaze to the man sitting next to Ralof. He was a thin man, with a gaunt face and dark hair. He was garbed plainly in a ragged tunic and trousers. Just like the rest of them, his hands were bound.

Lokir's face darkened when he was addressed. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was perfect before you decided to screw everything up. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, then I could have stolen that horse and been half-way to Hammerfell by now."

He looked at Therun. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloak dogs they want."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." Ralof intoned. "No point appointing blame for your capture on us. It would have come about sooner or later anyway."

"Shut up back there!" The annoyed driver suddenly interrupted, half-turning in his seat. Therun looked in that direction, and saw that they were approaching a small walled city at the base of a mountain.

The man to Therun's right made a noise like an angry dog. Therun turned, and suddenly realized that it was the man who had been leading the Stormcloaks at the convoy. He had been gagged after the skirmish, presumably to keep him from using the strange, destructive ability that he had used before.

"What's wrong with him?" Lokir asked Ralof.

"Watch your tongue." Ralof's tone quickly became scolding and angry. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak; The _true_ High King of Skyrim!"

Lokir's eyes widened, as did Therun's. Now that was a name that he had heard before. People in the Imperial City had taken to spitting it like bile in recent months. "The Jarl of Windhelm?"

Ulfric turned to him, and nodded gravely. The fierceness in his eyes that he had seen during the convoy ambush had dulled slightly, but there was still a fire burning within the man. He was clearly not prepared to give up the fight, even now.

"You're the leader of the rebellion." Lokir breathed, terror creeping into his voice. "But, if they've captured you… oh gods! Where are they taking us!"

"I don't know where we are bound." Ralof said gravely, turning to look down the road. "But Sovngarde awaits."

"Sovngarde." Therun breathed. He was well-versed in Nord culture thanks to his mother. Ralof spoke of the Nord afterlife, and of the heavenly place that awaited the bravest of Skyrim's people.

He sighed. He knew where this was going. "Is there a Sovngarde for a lost Imperial?"

Ralof and Ulfric looked at him, apparently lost for words.

Lokir was beginning to break down. "This can't be happening, there's something wrong…"

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" Ralof said, his tone gentler than it had been when he had rebuked him about Ulfric. Perhaps he wanted to provide the man with some amount of comfort before their trip ended.

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"…Rorikstead. I am from Rorikstead."

"Nice place, that is."

Listening to Ralof's advice, so too did Therun try to turn his thoughts to home. The Imperial City shone bright and proud in his eyes for a moment, as it had when he was young.

But soon, all he could see was the damaged White-Gold Tower, after its sacking by the Aldmeri Dominion's forces in the Great War. He saw pompous, self-important Thalmor guards patrolling the streets.

He saw his brother's corpse on the floor, and his house burning.

His home was not a home anymore. In an effort to distract himself, he looked back up, and saw a street sign as they passed by. By now, they and their escort had drawn very close to the walled settlement.

"It's Helgen."

Ralof and Ulfric looked up. "Ah... The end is near, then."

It wasn't long before they were at the gates, which opened wide to admit them. On the wall directly above the gate, Therun spied a man who carried an air of superiority on his shoulders. He was a tall, grey-haired Imperial probably in his mid-fifties. He was garbed in bronze plate armor, which was emblazoned with the seal of Akatosh.

He was watching their approach, arms crossed before him, when a soldier approached him. "General Tullius, the headsman is waiting."

"Good, let's get this over with."

At the mention of a headsman, Lokir lost all composure. He began trembling in earnest, and folded his hands. "Shor, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh, Mara, Tsun, Stendarr, divines please help me!"

They passed through the gates, and found all eyes in the village upon them. The citizens of Helgen stood aside to let the prisoners and their captors pass, watching them from porches and store fronts. Therun noted that the reaction of the citizens was quite mixed. While some looked smugly pleased at seeing so many Stormcloaks captured, others were pale and looked worried, and even seemed to be checking faces for those they might have known.

They rolled slowly through the streets, murmurs following them all the way. Three people on horses trotted quickly past them on the street, and Therun saw the general once again, followed by two Altmer in hooded black cloaks. The sight of the elves made his blood boil.

"Look at him." Ralof muttered darkly, following Therun's angry gaze and seeing the objects of his scorn. "General Tullius; the military governor. And he's got a pair of Thalmor with him. Damn elves, they probably had something to do with this."

Tullius and the Thalmor moved ahead of them into what was clearly Helgen's town square. The setting that awaited them was grim. More Imperial soldiers were waiting (including a few archers on a nearby rooftop) with weapons close at hand. A chopping block was in the middle of the square, with a large wicker basket next to it.

Standing next to the block was a tall, masked and hooded man covered in black. In his hand was the largest axe that Therun had ever seen. A few steps away was a woman in the brown and yellow robes of a priestess, making signs in the air before her and talking quietly to herself.

Therun turned quickly away from this sight. Perhaps Lokir's edginess was starting to get to him, but his eyes darted back and forth looking for any chance for escape. But there was none to be found. It seemed like everywhere he looked there was at least one soldier.

He heard Ralof breathe deeply, and this drew his attention back to him. He was looking wistfully around the village, and there was a nostalgic, melancholy tone in his voice when he spoke next. "It's been years since I've been here. I used to be sweet on a girl from here… Wonder if old Vilod at the tavern is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in…"

It was an oddly calming picture that Ralof painted. Therun felt his breathing beginning to steady despite the severity of the situation. Did the Nord realize the effect that he was having on one of his 'brothers in binds' right now? If Therun did make it to Sovngarde, he'd have to remember to thank Ralof for making his last moments relatively peaceful.

And there it was. He had just acknowledged it. He was going to die. And he was at peace with that fact. But he wouldn't go to his fate like Lokir, trembling and pleading for mercy. He would leave this life straight-backed and proud.

"Funny," Ralof was saying, "when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers made me feel so safe."

"The world is a different place now." Therun agreed, inadvertently using a tone rather like Ralof's own. "Whatever peace the Empire has given us has come at too great a price. What do you suppose that Talos, Uriel, or Martin would have to say about the place, now?"

Ralof nodded, smiling sadly. At that moment, Therun felt a sense of closeness between them, as though the Nord whom he had just met had been his closest friend since birth.

The procession rumbled to a halt in the town square, which was positioned at the base of a fortress-like structure. The carriages rumbled to a halt at one end of the square, and soldiers were quick to open up the backs of the carriages, while the archers kept their sights on the prisoners at all times.

"W-why are we s-stopping?" Lokir stuttered, watching the guards.

"End of the line." Therun said. "Why else?"

"Wait, no!" Lokir panicked again, his voice rising both in pitch and volume. He craned his neck around to the nearest guard. "I'm not a rebel, listen to me!"

The guard didn't pay him any attention. Ralof looked across at Therun. "Let's go. Best not keep the gods waiting for us, eh?"

Therun nodded, and they and Ulfric stood up. The jarl went first, still unwillingly silent. Ralof nudged the shaking Lokir out after him.

"Face your death with at least some courage, horse thief."

"This isn't happening…"

They all stepped out, forming something of a straight line in front of a pair of Imperials, one of which was an Imperial woman wearing a captain's helmet. The other was a tall Nord male with auburn hair, holding a clipboard and a quill. A similar setup was happening in front of the other carriages.

"Empire loves their damn lists." Ralof said, annoyed. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Therun couldn't help but chuckle. As an Imperial, he couldn't totally deny that fixation on order and organization that was so prevalent in Cyrodiil.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The man with the list called, eyes already trained on the man he knew to be Ulfric.

He walked forward, shoulders back and chin up. The man made a check on his list, and nodded him over to the center of the square, where General Tullius, the two Thalmor, and more guards were already assembled.

"It's been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." Ralof said respectfully as he passed. He received a grateful nod in return. The other Stormcloaks also called out their respect to Ulfric as they passed, visibly frustrating some of their Imperial captors.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The soldier called next. He seemed mildly surprised to find this name on the list, and looked sharply up as Ralof stepped forward.

"Hadvar." He nodded, confirming a pre-existing relationship between them.

Another check on the list, and Ralof went to join the other Stormcloaks whose names had been called.

"Lokir of Rorikstead." The man called Hadvar called next.

The thief stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. Hearing his name actually called for execution seemed to have thrown him into whole new depths of fear.

"No, no! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

"We've heard it before, friend." The captain replied, annoyed. "To the block."

Rather than comply, Lokir did the stupidest thing possible at that moment. He tried to run.

He bolted past the captain, and took off down the main street, nearly slamming head-first into a horse's flank in his haste and panic. A pair of woman walking toward the square jumped fearfully out of his way as he drew near.

"HALT!" The captain shouted angrily after him. All eyes were on Lokir now, wondering if the thief would actually be able to escape.

"You're not going to kill me!" He cried.

"Archers!"

Lokir never made it anywhere near the walls. Two seconds after the captain gave the order, the archers opened fire. Lokir fell, and skidded about ten feet across the ground before coming to a halt, no less than four arrows embedded in his back. A fifth had struck him in the neck.

If Therun had still been entertaining any hopes of escape, then this would have been quite enough to crush them.

"Anyone _else_ feel like running!" The captain challenged, her dark eyes scanning the faces of the Stormcloak prisoners. When she got no response she looked back to Hadvar. "Carry on."

Hadvar's eyes then flashed up and down between Therun, and the list in his hands. He looked puzzled.

Finally, he looked Therun in the eyes. "Hmm, you there. Step forward."

Therun did so, stopping a few feet short of the man. He said nothing, but rather waited for Hadvar to speak first.

"Who are you?"

Therun had a silent debate with himself at that moment. He had been putting together an alias and false backstory for himself during his entire trip here from Cyrodiil to use if anybody with ties to the Thalmor asked him exactly that question. But, now that he was about to die, there hardly seemed to be any reason to hide his identity.

"Therun Axion." He answered.

Hadvar looked back down at his list, his brow furrowed. "You're a long way from the Imperial City, friend. What are you doing in Skyrim?"

Again, no reason to lie. "I'm here to lie low after a group of Thalmor murdered my brother and his wife in cold blood."

The bluntness of his statement caught the two soldiers off-guard. He saw Hadvar glance toward the two Altmer standing next to General Tullius very quickly. Then, he looked to his commanding officer. "Captain, he's not on the list…"

"Forget the list." She replied quickly and harshly. "We're about to end the war here. He goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain." He replied solemnly. He turned back to Therun. To his credit, he looked genuinely sorry when he said, "I'm sorry. We'll ensure that your remains are returned to Cyrodiil at once."

"You do that." Therun started walking toward the group around the chopping block. "And you tell the Empire what I've told you."

By now, a sizable crowd that must have been close to the entire population of the city had gathered on the edges of the square to watch the impending executions. There was a constant drone of chatter from the citizens. He saw unable to pick out any specific words, but he heard excitement one moment, and dread the next. The atmosphere was tense.

Once all the Stormcloaks were accounted for, the prisoners were arranged in a semi-circle around the block. General Tullius stepped forward, and stopped in front of Jarl Ulfric.

"Ulfric Stormcloak." He began. He didn't sound smug, or pleased to have the rebellion leader in his clutches. But there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice nevertheless. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Was that what it had been? Ulfric had used the Voice back during the ambush?

Again, Ulfric made a snarling dog-like sound at Tullius. The general was unmoved by the expression of defiance. Therun noticed his fist clench tightly at his side. Clearly, this man wanted justice.

"_You_ started this war, and plunged Skyrim into chaos!" He continued, a definite undercurrent of anger present now. "Now, the Empire is going to put you down like the dangerous animal you are, and _restore the peace_!"

Tullius looked as though he was about to say more, when he was interrupted.

Seemingly from a great distance, there was an unearthly sound like a roaring, shrieking beast. It echoed through the mountains, losing almost no volume by the time it hit the streets of Helgen.

Everybody cast their eyes upward toward the mountains, where it seemed that the startling noise had come from. Many people took startled steps backward, and Therun saw one of the guards almost drop his sword.

"What was that?" The female captain –now at Tullius's side- asked.

"_And the scrolls have foretold,_

_Of black wings in the cold,_

_That when brothers wage war come unfurled…"_

The words passed suddenly through Therun's mind, though he had never heard them before. He looked around, thinking that somebody must be near him and whispering. But the voice had been almost otherworldly in quality, and the only people near him were Ralof and another Stormcloak prisoner.

"It was nothing." Tullius said sternly, though something in his voice suggested that he thought otherwise. He turned to the captain. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius." She nodded to the priestess, who had been waiting patiently this whole time. "Give them their last rights."

She took a step forward, and raised her hands high. She spoke clearly, and ceremoniously, "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight divines-"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with!" One Stormcloak barked, walking forward toward the block.

The priestess stopped abruptly, looking very offended. She glared at the Stormcloak whom had interrupted her. "As you wish, then."

The annoyed rebel stopped in front of the block, next to the captain. He turned his back on her, prompting her to force him onto his knees. She then pressed her booted foot between his shoulder blades, forcing his head onto the block, with his neck at the very edge.

He never tried to struggle, and even looked defiantly up at the cowled headsman as he raised his axe high. "My ancestors are smiling at me this day, Imperials. Can any of you say the same?"

The axe came down, and Therun winced slightly. The crowd –even though they had obviously seen it coming- let out a collective gasp as the defiant Stormcloak's head fell into the waiting basket.

As a pair of guards dragged the headless corpse away, Therun heard Ralof say, "As fearless in death as he was in life."

"Next," The captain said after a moment of consideration, "the traitor from Cyrodiil!"

Therun froze for the briefest of moments when he heard his name called. Ralof looked at him, and nodded as a sign of respect. He returned the gesture, and took a step forward.

Before he could take a second, the air was wrent a second time by the roaring sound preceding the first execution. Therun reflexively stopped in his tracks, and again everybody looked up to the mountains. It had sounded even closer this time.

"There it is again." Hadvar murmured.

"_Alduin, bane of kings,_

_Ancient shadow unbound…"_

"I said next prisoner!" The captain barked, clearly trying her hardest to ignore the noise. But this was becoming very hard to do. Now the horses harnessed to the carriages were whinnying nervously, tugging at their harnesses and stamping their hooves anxiously despite the attempts of their handlers to calm them. In the distance, a pair of dogs were barking.

Therun caught himself, and started walking forward again, his eyes still searching the mountainside for a sign of the source of the strange noise. But all too soon, it was him at the block, and him being forced onto his knees.

He breathed deeply, and looked up at the headsman, whose axe head was now shining scarlet. The captain pressed him down onto the block.

It looked as though this was the end. Yet, he felt no fear, merely anticipation. He gazed up at his executioner, silhouetted against the dim morning sun.

Then, the noise came again. But this time, the source made itself known.

From behind the mountains emerged a terrifying, awe-inspiring creature. It was a massive lizard-like creature with jagged scales as black as a moonless night. It soared through the air on huge, leathery wings like a bat's, with powerful gripping hind talons and a great, thrashing tail. Its terrifying visage was horned, with a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, and gleaming red eyes.

It soared quickly to Helgen, its vast shape briefly eclipsing the sun.

"What in Oblivion is that!" Tullius shouted upon seeing its approach.

Before he could get a response, the creature was upon them. It landed on top of the tower that was Helgen Keep, breaking off great chunks of stone as its talons met the surface. The force of its landing knocked several people off their feet, including the headsman.

It perched atop the tower quietly surveying the scene as the citizens all ran quickly away, sometimes shoving each other out of the way. The Imperial soldiers drew their weapons, themselves taking cautious steps backwards.

Then, it located Therun. The creature fixed him in its gaze with its malicious, glowing red eyes. For his part, he couldn't move, frozen in shock as he was. His mind was simply blank for a few shocked seconds.

Somebody shouted, "DRAGON!"

As though this was its cue, the creature roared again. The force of it knocked almost everybody in the square to the ground, but the worst was yet to come. The sky grew dark with greyish storm clouds, which churned violently in a vortex around all of Helgen. Great balls of fire rained from the sky…

"_With a hunger to swallow the world."_

The greatest journey of Therun Axion's life had begun.

!

_So, what do you think? I'd love to hear some feedback (just no flames, please). And if you have any favorite quests you'd like to see, I'd love to hear!_

_And please leave a review!_


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